Dear Bob:
I know it is common courtesy to thank those who have helped a graduate get to their day of commencement. However, I have been eagerly looking forward to writing a genuine thank you letter for some time now for all the your kindnesses. It is my chance to tell you just how much you mean to me and how much you have enriched my academic life since I met you.
My first classes with you were during a very difficult term, a term where I had bitten off more than I could chew in course credits and research papers. Never having an inclination to study Latin America before, I signed on for two courses to satisfy a requirement. I know see that it was a different requirement your classes fulfilled, because I had pushed myself to my limit and beyond and succeeded. I realized a lot of that was because of you. The reading load in combination with my other classes I, of course, complained about privately. I memorized summaries of those readings for you Spiritual Conquest class for my midterm just hoping it would suffice and not knowing your expectations. As a quiet guy, it is easy to seem intimidating, but I soon learned different about you. To my surprise there was a type written response from you on my returned test.
All my education has been for two very important reasons that I have now realized: 1) I love learning and working hard. 2) I desired recognition for that work. Not rewards or accolades. Not even the grades, which I learned a long time ago were meaningless if I did not feel like I proved myself. I had to prove my integrity and my ability in order to really enjoy a letter grade. Like any other occupation or job, I went to class every day because I loved it. Loved it even when it was hard or brain-numbingly exhausting. I began to really like a subject I never thought of before.
And your little typed note was more than I had received from so many other professors who I sometimes think didn't even read my papers. You are different than those professors who lose sight of the reason they are where they are, and I knew from that day that you were different. You were like how I hoped to be one day for someone else. So often students just take the bare minimum and miss out on the relationships of a collegial career, because they too lose sight of the reason they are there. Partying is of course great in college, but I did that in high school and lost interest fast. Perhaps getting married young aged me, or maybe it is just part of my character. But I do know that creating meaningful relationships with others and finding meaning in life experiences is what life is about wherever you are at. My definition of a good college experience is different I suppose.
Whenever I'm not challenged, I seek out more or the next big hurdle. I suppose at the back of my mind is the frenetic voice tallying my accomplishments to put on grad school applications, but it is a small voice. I think my passion for learning a subject I love and sharing with people like you who listen and who get it (and me) makes it worth the work.
So a year ago I signed on for your seminar because I trusted that I would be challenged in your class and that I could prove myself once again. It wasn't the subject which attracted me. It was your teaching style, your open mindedness, and your gentle encouragement which has always allowed me to be creative. Thinking at the beginning of the term I could never write a 20 pages paper, I surprised myself. I was absorbed in my research and dedicated to my paper. The pages came easily when I was passionate about my topic, but also when I knew your expectations weren't cripplingly high nor exorbenately low. I trusted you would gauge my success by my abilities, and many times thought I would fail.
But I didn't-- and here we are a year later with so much more under my belt. A conference paper (which I thought I would bomb), a thesis (I never thought I would get off the ground), and graduation coming. You took me under your wing at the Ethnohistory conference, and I felt at home with you and Stephanie and all the other Mesoamerican enthusiasts. It was a path in life which felt good and right, and my epiphany in realizing my direction in life was a painful one. Even I deal with serious fears of inadequacy and with so many telling me how hard it is to become a professor I was considering not following that life. But I was changed after those few fun days (because yes it was fun to hear about primodial documents), and I know this path will be tough. I also know I have what it takes to keep the reason for doing it all always in mind: because I love it. Why write a thesis and as you said inflict it upon myself? Because I love it. I know I'll continue to love the work despite the obstacles if I have mentors and supporters like you.
My family all know your name because I'll say things about "Bob" this or "Bob" that. They'll ask, "Well, what did Bob say?" because they know you are an important figure in my life. My mom once even said during a moment of my own self-doubt, "Yeah and you and I both know Bob wouldn't let you think that about yourself." She is right. You are a great source of inspiration and encouragement I will always be thankful for. You go above and beyond by getting to know me, by caring about my future, and by carefully reading pages of my work that I find to be akin to nails scratching chalk boards.
I'll miss our chats about movies, books, travels, and life. I'll miss it all, but don't think I'm saying goodbye. I'm not going anywhere and I plan to know you for a long time. You have made a lasting impression on me both in school and out. I'll treasure your friendship and mentorship as long as I live.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Pathes
Sometimes I think I'm just on a different life path, living a parallel life to infinite other options. In other universes I am dead. Some I am skinny. Some I am healthy and happy. Some I am nowhere near as intelligent as I prize today. The list goes on, because it is of course infinite. Does that make this life, this universe meaningless?
Sometimes I think I flash to another me, a me as an artist, a me as an actress, a me as a mind-blowing writer. What am I in this world? When people hear me think this out loud, they think I am not being confident. Perhaps, but I have a feeling I am above the self-deprecation they imagine. The whole point of my questions is actually that I believe I could do those things- except for perhaps being a writer. I feel like writing is a gift. A gift I just don't have. I also hate most of what I write, so I don't trust my own judgment.
In the end, I am a creature of flair and adventure concerning trying new things, but I am primarily, whole-heartedly, unwaveringly, and intentionally a creature of self-promotion only in the fields, studies, skills, and venture I have been commended in by others. I'm a people pleaser through and through. But I don't think that way, not at all actually. The reasons for my decisions is always in the back of my head though, and I know I stick with those who do give me praise because I will continue to work to prove myself. It isn't all bad, in the end I challenge myself beyond what I thought possible for myself.
Unfortunately, I have about a thousand things I would like to do. And like my mother told me, it won't be thinking up one idea to follow, it will be choosing one from the many I come up with. Another quote I love is "God my brilliance is becoming somewhat of a burden now." I pray for brilliance, and when I get it, it comes with a price. That price most often is because I take on too much, but yet again, I surprise myself. I have yet to drop the ball. People think that is great. I think, "Shit, if not this- what?" The precedent isn't there. I set the bar high and meet it, so maybe I can do this. But I'll wait for that day when I mistep.
I'm ready to fuck things up, make mistakes and learn from it. Has anyone ever asked for that? I want life to its fullest and completest and dearest state of complicated ups and downs. We'll see what is in store for me soon enough because life keeps happening.
Sometimes I think I flash to another me, a me as an artist, a me as an actress, a me as a mind-blowing writer. What am I in this world? When people hear me think this out loud, they think I am not being confident. Perhaps, but I have a feeling I am above the self-deprecation they imagine. The whole point of my questions is actually that I believe I could do those things- except for perhaps being a writer. I feel like writing is a gift. A gift I just don't have. I also hate most of what I write, so I don't trust my own judgment.
In the end, I am a creature of flair and adventure concerning trying new things, but I am primarily, whole-heartedly, unwaveringly, and intentionally a creature of self-promotion only in the fields, studies, skills, and venture I have been commended in by others. I'm a people pleaser through and through. But I don't think that way, not at all actually. The reasons for my decisions is always in the back of my head though, and I know I stick with those who do give me praise because I will continue to work to prove myself. It isn't all bad, in the end I challenge myself beyond what I thought possible for myself.
Unfortunately, I have about a thousand things I would like to do. And like my mother told me, it won't be thinking up one idea to follow, it will be choosing one from the many I come up with. Another quote I love is "God my brilliance is becoming somewhat of a burden now." I pray for brilliance, and when I get it, it comes with a price. That price most often is because I take on too much, but yet again, I surprise myself. I have yet to drop the ball. People think that is great. I think, "Shit, if not this- what?" The precedent isn't there. I set the bar high and meet it, so maybe I can do this. But I'll wait for that day when I mistep.
I'm ready to fuck things up, make mistakes and learn from it. Has anyone ever asked for that? I want life to its fullest and completest and dearest state of complicated ups and downs. We'll see what is in store for me soon enough because life keeps happening.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Crystal Clear
A fortress of glassy glacial ice is melting. It took years to build and it took all sorts of engineers and late nights to concoct. With so little left for it to stand for, it has decided it would be best to fade. It wasn't an immediate decision of course. It had liked the roomy caverns and echoing hallways within. The crystalline fortress knew it was time to move on though.
The people within it were leaving. Slowly they left in the dead of night. Stealing away what little possessions they owned, they saw no other way to survive. It had convinced them its walls were safe. Locking in the numb chill of solitude, the people forgot their worries and the outside world. Family faded in their memories and icicles encased their hearts. Though it was an easier life, it was also a life of death and dying connections to things which used to make someone giggle, or moan, or desire. Instead, the fortress stole away joy and thanksgiving and replaced it with pride and doubt. No one sought them out for they did not know where their loved ones ran to. Little did the icicle people know that their loved ones mourned for them outside the bluish shadowed life they lead. When they were justified in feeling isolated because no one came for them, the inhabitants further embraced the slick walls and sparkling floors.
It lost the fight. No amount of ice could contain people. Not desire, nor love triumphant brought this mighty fortress down. No it was an old lady with a long memory. The long memory meant jagged edges still unworn by the sliding pressure of the glacial age. Her partner passed on long ago, but she really could not remember the end of her love. She forgot her true love and her shining smile. The true death of this fortress came when she refused to die, her hatred of a long memory still lived. She was the only one who remained in that glassy house. All else was gone. It made the choice to come down around her in a silent homage to the hate that filled her chest. It saw no other choice than to capture her. Her company would suffice for the next millenia. But would it outlive her rage, it never knew. It would never know because she kept it so well hidden. It was not the rage of a burning aching pain. The rage within her was icier than her captor, and she hid within it to save her last remaining crystalline heart, though shattered, pieces. Though hard to believe, this slow and dripping fall of fortress walls and the wicked sustaining hardness of her heart were a kind of battle. Time was inconsequential. And even the reason for this fight lost meaning. Without this, they both lost meaning.
When she walked free, the world held a new value. One worth living for. She had no one. But she had her heart, its own chrystalline shards reassembled in a glassy prison. She was impenetrable.
The people within it were leaving. Slowly they left in the dead of night. Stealing away what little possessions they owned, they saw no other way to survive. It had convinced them its walls were safe. Locking in the numb chill of solitude, the people forgot their worries and the outside world. Family faded in their memories and icicles encased their hearts. Though it was an easier life, it was also a life of death and dying connections to things which used to make someone giggle, or moan, or desire. Instead, the fortress stole away joy and thanksgiving and replaced it with pride and doubt. No one sought them out for they did not know where their loved ones ran to. Little did the icicle people know that their loved ones mourned for them outside the bluish shadowed life they lead. When they were justified in feeling isolated because no one came for them, the inhabitants further embraced the slick walls and sparkling floors.
It lost the fight. No amount of ice could contain people. Not desire, nor love triumphant brought this mighty fortress down. No it was an old lady with a long memory. The long memory meant jagged edges still unworn by the sliding pressure of the glacial age. Her partner passed on long ago, but she really could not remember the end of her love. She forgot her true love and her shining smile. The true death of this fortress came when she refused to die, her hatred of a long memory still lived. She was the only one who remained in that glassy house. All else was gone. It made the choice to come down around her in a silent homage to the hate that filled her chest. It saw no other choice than to capture her. Her company would suffice for the next millenia. But would it outlive her rage, it never knew. It would never know because she kept it so well hidden. It was not the rage of a burning aching pain. The rage within her was icier than her captor, and she hid within it to save her last remaining crystalline heart, though shattered, pieces. Though hard to believe, this slow and dripping fall of fortress walls and the wicked sustaining hardness of her heart were a kind of battle. Time was inconsequential. And even the reason for this fight lost meaning. Without this, they both lost meaning.
When she walked free, the world held a new value. One worth living for. She had no one. But she had her heart, its own chrystalline shards reassembled in a glassy prison. She was impenetrable.
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